Mrs Darcy's Masque Seduction
by VioletKingAuthor
Summary: Can Elizabeth seduce Mr. Darcy a second time? Fearing Mr. Darcy has taken a London mistress, Elizabeth follows her husband to a Masquerade ball to uncover the truth. This is a steamy/sensual variation.
1. Chapter 1

Hi! This is a steamy Pride and Prejudice variation. I am posting the first chapter here so you know it exists, but if you want to read this book online in its unredacted form, I am posting them on my website VioletKingAuthor DOT com. You will need a free membership to read after the first chapter, so just click on Read Free Online to get the membership! It is also soon available for purchase at online booksellers including Amazon. Enjoy!

**Chapter 1**

Fitzwilliam kissed like a man drowning. He held Elizabeth close, one hand on the small of her back, the other cupping her head, his tongue slipping between her parted lips, his manhood hard against her belly. It was enough to make Elizabeth forget his mistress in London.

If he had a mistress.

Elizabeth did not know for sure. She knew he had lied to her though, his steward stating no knowledge of sudden repairs or disaster at their London townhouse. Mrs. Lavinia Dorset, neighbor and old family friend of Mr. Darcy the elder, insisted a mistress was the most likely reason Mr. Darcy so frequently visited his London townhouse alone.

Mrs. Dorset's proclamation had knocked the breath from Elizabeth's lungs. A week later, doubts knotted Elizabeth's guts, resting in the back of her throat, tasting like acid as she and their two children waved their father goodbye for the third time in as many months.

"Dinna fret, wee 'uns," said the nanny, Sophie, a round-faced Scottish lass with long, auburn hair in braids hanging from the nape of her neck. She patted Elizabeth's youngest, Emma, on the head. "Yer da will return in the flick of a horse's tail."

Emma, a dark-haired three-year-old possessed of Fitzwilliam's quiet nature and thoughtful squint, nodded.

Her five-year-old brother, Aldous, laughed. "A poopy horse?" he said, slapping his hand over his mouth, dark eyes twinkling as honey-brown curls bounced on his forehead.

"Shh!" Emma admonished, stamping her foot and glaring at her brother.

Aldous laughed again.

Elizabeth schooled her face into a serious expression even as inside she smothered a laugh. She loved the children with every fiber of her soul. Though she might doubt her husband, she could never doubt them. Soon, within six months if she measured her monthly courses accurately, she and Fitzwilliam would be blessed with a third child. Surely then, her husband would stay home. Or perhaps a mewling infant would drive him further away. Some men, like Mr. Hurst, avoided their babies until they were old enough for, in his words, 'a proper conversation.'

No, not Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth might question his fidelity, but not the evidence of his fatherly affection. Fitzwilliam had loved holding his infant children. Even as they grew older, he took time to play with Aldous and Emma, more often than other fathers of their elevated class did, as Elizabeth had learned.

If only Lavinia had not put these notions in Elizabeth's mind. Fitzwilliam…a mistress? Elizabeth had married for love, and she had a wonderful life and family. It was foolish to question her good fortune. She wanted to banish her doubts, and for the next few hours she did, joining Sophie and the children in the nursery, playing games and reading aloud to them as she did often, wanting them to love books as much as she did.

Elizabeth put her doubts far from her mind through the morning and for a picnic lunch, after which Emma and Aldous waded gleefully in the fountain in defiance of the early summer heat.

A moment of joy, quickly dashed, rose in Elizabeth as she saw a carriage approaching the house and recognized it was not her husband, changing his mind about his sudden town business, and instead bore the Dorset seal.

Mrs. Dorset made a habit of popping in around teatime. She had three children of her own, all boys—two of school age, and one in the care of a nanny. None of the boys were in attendance today, which meant they were running about her estate or summering with their cousins near the sea. Likely the former, as Mrs. Dorset was not one to forego the opportunity to travel.

Sophie said, "I am supposin' it is Wednesday. Mrs. Dorset invites herself for tea on Wednesdays."

Normally, a servant would not be so forward in her admonishment of a guest, but Elizabeth and Sophie had grown close over the years, and Elizabeth was not one to be strict about proprieties in any sense. Especially as she agreed Mrs. Dorset took liberties, both in her self-invitation and her intimations that Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy might be unfaithful.

But Elizabeth knew better than to cut the woman, no matter how well she might deserve it. Mrs. Dorset held the regard of many important ladies in the area, and while Elizabeth had higher status due to her husband's wealth and relations, Mrs. Dorset could make Elizabeth's life miserable if she so chose.

So Elizabeth left her children, after giving each a kiss on the forehead, with Sophie and made her way to find out what their neighbor wanted today.

"Oh, Mrs. Darcy, you poor dear, out laboring in this heat!" Mrs. Dorset waved a fan over her face. She was a stout, fashionably dressed woman of five and forty. Grey strands wove through her brown hair, which she wore in a knot of elaborate braids, curls framing her face. In her time, she had been a beauty, and the bones of it remained in the regal sweep of her nose, height of her cheeks, clear blue eyes, and excellent posture.

Mrs. Dorset looked over Elizabeth, skin flushed from exertion and browned in the sun, and said, "Your love of nature is laudable, but perhaps it is best not to exert oneself so in the summer months." She cocked her head, "Especially when one is expecting."

Expecting! How did she know? Elizabeth lowered her gaze. "We have not spoken with the midwife."

Mrs. Dorset grinned. "I thought it might be, with your youngest just turned three. Mr. Darcy knows?"

"We have not shared it." Though now, Mrs. Dorset's loose tongue would ensure the neighbors and all neighboring villages knew of the Darcys' news. "We are not certain, as yet."

"Yes. Yes, the midwife. You are sturdy, I must say. With good hips for birthing, thanks be to the Lord."

Elizabeth smiled, feeling more like a horse being assessed at market then a friend. Which, despite Mrs. Dorset's frequent visits and advice, they were not. Elizabeth said, "It is hardly a trial to picnic with one's children. What brings you all this way?"

"Mr. Darcy is not in attendance?"

"No," Elizabeth said, the doubts she had so diligently stifled once again rising. "He is once more to town."

"As I thought!" Mrs. Dorset took Elizabeth's hands and squeezed. "I thought it was his carriage that passed by our home. It was too far off to discern the seal, but…" She glanced at the entrance to Pemberley. Elizabeth, knowing propriety offered her little choice, said, "Come inside. It is warm, as you say. I will have a maid bring us refreshments."

Mrs. Dorset grinned. "Have you those finger pastries with the strawberries your cook offered last week? They were divine!"

"We were not expecting company, but I am sure cook has something on hand." It was the closest to an admonishment Elizabeth could manage.

They sat, drinking tea, as Mrs. Dorset relayed her tale of spying the carriage, which she presumed must have been Mr. Darcy's, and repeated her counsel for Elizabeth not to worry but to focus her attention on home and family as was her duty as wife and mother.

"Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth said, not wishing to use her husband's given name in the presence of Mrs. Dorset, who read too much into the slightest information. "Has seemed well..._satisfied_…in our marriage and…" Elizabeth's cheeks warmed. "Fully involved in all the activities of a husband."

Mrs. Dorset laughed. "With a third child on the way, I suspect so. Men are always interested in bed play."

"So, I do not believe a lack of interest is...at all..."

"Oh, Mrs. Darcy! Dissatisfaction does not lead men astray. A gentleman will enjoy his prized cook's meals and still seek satiation elsewhere. Do not worry of it. Or speak of it. They always come home." Mrs. Dorset took a third tartlet and bit into it.

Elizabeth sipped her tea. "Mr. Darcy does not seek novelty."

Mrs. Dorset laughed. "All gentlemen crave novelty, Mrs. Darcy. I suspect he is off to join her at that masquerade ball. My husband and I were invited, but town is a horror in summer. The stench!"

Elizabeth cocked her head. "My husband was invited to no ball."

Mrs. Dorset asked, "Are you certain?"

"Mr. Darcy is not fond of dancing, or small talk, or large groups of people," Elizabeth said.

"As you say," Mrs. Dorset finished her tart. "As you say."

Elizabeth took another sip of her tea. The subject shifted, and Mrs. Dorset mentioned the Midsummer Festival that the village held every year. "Your husband will have returned by then, certainly," Mrs. Dorset said.

"As it is six weeks from today, I should hope so," Elizabeth said. And Fitzwilliam would return by then, but would he leave again after?

Finally, Mrs. Dorset left, and Elizabeth had dinner in the nursery with her children before returning to her cold, empty bed.

Mr. Darcy would not have gone to London to attend a ball, costumed or otherwise. The idea was ridiculous! If anyone had invited them to such an affair, Mr. Darcy would have declined.

And yet, the suspicion lingered. Elizabeth knew she had no business puttering about her husband's study, but, after half an hour of pretending interest in a novel she had been excited to read before her husband's departure and Mrs. Dorset's visit, Elizabeth snapped the volume closed and, taking a candle, went to her husband's study.

She would not open his correspondence. She trusted her husband, and he deserved his privacy. As she did. But it would do no harm to glance at the shape of the letters on his desk, if there were any unopened. She would see if there were any invitations, either upon his writing desk or, more likely, thrown away.

She could not be faulted for that.

Elizabeth slipped into the room. Unlike Elizabeth's writing desk, which was a mess of half-finished missives and notes to herself, Mr. Darcy's desk was clear. Orderly. Elizabeth opened the desk to look inside. Not to open any of his correspondence, simply to note what was present. She saw no invitation.

Elizabeth glanced at the wastebasket. A paper lay crumpled up inside.

Elizabeth stared at it. Her fingers itched. If he had thrown it away, that hardly counted as a violation of his privacy. After a moment's more deliberation, Elizabeth knelt, took the letter from the wastebasket and flattened it on the desk, running her fingers over the surface to remove the creases.

Elizabeth's stomach clenched at the looping script. The paper was scented with rose water, and the words that followed cloyed at her throat.

_My Dearest Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy,_

_How is it you promise to care for me and then, at your convenience, leave me alone to rot? I cannot bear it. _

_I will be at the Lord Whitmore's costumed ball. The invitation is enclosed. If you cannot be persuaded to return from your country manor to retrieve me, I suppose I must offer my dance to another. _

_With Great Affection,_

_Philippa_

Elizabeth's hands shook. Mrs. Dorset's words rang in her mind. Not that Mr. Darcy was dissatisfied, but he craved novelty. Elizabeth had thought herself enough, but this harlot had tempted him away.

But if Fitzwilliam had a kept woman, it was not clear in their household finances, which he made no efforts to hide. With as much wealth as Mr. Darcy possessed, it was as likely he had some small income hidden away somewhere. Or perhaps he had hidden the income required for his mistress' keeping as some other expense. The townhouse had flooded last autumn. Or so Mr. Darcy had said. They had not visited London together since the previous spring.

Elizabeth dropped into her husband's chair. Her stomach roiled. She folded the letter into her palm and put her head in her open hands. The paper crinkled against her forehead. She swallowed.

What was she to do? Elizabeth had no guarantee this Philippa was her husband's mistress. If asked, true or not, Fitzwilliam would deny it. Elizabeth needed proof.

Sophie could manage the children for a short time, and the household would manage itself. What Elizabeth could not manage was the waiting. Better to find out her husband had betrayed her than eat herself alive with doubts.

The date for the ball was a week from now. It was enough time for Elizabeth to go to London and secure an invitation. She would stay with her aunt and uncle and make no mention of her presence to Mr. Darcy until the ball.

Perhaps Mr. Darcy had not fallen into bed with another woman. Perhaps there was another reason for this lady's effusive letter. Or, perhaps he had succumbed, but only once. Perhaps this Philippa was blackmailing him.

Mr. Darcy could not love this woman. It was, at worst, a novelty.

Elizabeth would not lose her husband to the allure of novelty. If Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy had been seduced, then by all in this world, Elizabeth would find out the truth, and win him back if she could.

Or end it.

**Thank you for reading!**

You can read more at VioletKingAuthor DOT com. The chapters after this get pretty steamy, and while FFnet has an M rating, they specifically say they do not accept xplicit content when you agree to the TOS when posting the story, so I'm just posting future steamy chapters solely to my website membership club.

I'll be posting my sweet books here unredacted as always.

Enjoy!  
V


	2. Chapter 2

Realized I could post this chapter. Here's chapter 2! Light redactions only.

**Chapter 2**

Blast Cyrus, Darcy's idiot cousin, five years his elder, who had begged from his sickbed for Darcy to keep a watchful eye on his illegitimate daughter, Philippa.

Darcy was fairly certain Cyrus, heir to the earldom, was ill due to his penchant for taking advantage of any available or willing woman. Likely, he had bastards all over England, but he'd had affection for Philippa's mother and had funded the daughter's finishing after her mother's passing. A finishing Philippa had little interest in using to her advantage, instead seeking all manner of trouble and forcing Darcy to clean up the mess.

Darcy had called on her first at the school at which his cousin had paid to have her board, but the school claimed that she had run away and, further, they had informed her guardian who had asked no more of them. Darcy then visited apartments his cousin had rented for Philippa's mother, but she was not there. Now, he waited to enter Lord Whitmore's ball in formal clothing with a simple black mask over his eyes.

Blast Philippa for dragging Darcy away from his pregnant wife. If Elizabeth had not been in such a state, he might have asked for her help. Elizabeth was far better at navigating these social obstacles than Darcy himself. She also had a way with young ladies. Georgiana adored her, and so did the other young women of the village. The tenants' children, the servants' daughters, all of them adored Elizabeth, though none adored her as much as Darcy himself.

Instead, he wasted his time on this foolishness. Illness or no, when Darcy found Philippa, he intended to drag her to her father and let Cyrus, the vapid fool, see to her upbringing.

If familial blood did not run in the young woman's veins, Darcy would have washed his hands of her. But, at fifteen, the girl reminded Darcy too much of his sister as a youth—and again, they shared blood.

Darcy waited, his invitation in hand as, one by one, the guests were admitted into Lord Whitmore's massive ballroom.

Summer laid a humid, pungent shroud over London, though Lord Whitmore was wealthy enough to have his home upwind of it. They had opened windows and balconies to let in the sluggish breeze. A half dozen chandeliers hung from the ceiling, crystal glittering in the candlelight, making it somewhat easier to discern one shadowy, costumed form from another. Darcy counted twelve jesters, and fourteen ladies of Grecian myth, and a healthy selection of dairy maids and priests.

Philippa, young with extravagantly styled dark hair, bright green eyes and a figure far too womanly for her fifteen years, would deck herself in paste jewels and make a show of herself. Darcy, having met her twice, was certain of that.

Not that Philippa was without accomplishment. She played the pianoforte prettily and was a fair artist in watercolors and oils. She conversed easily, and practiced good manners when she chose to, which was not often enough for Darcy's taste.

Worse, Philippa flirted. She had flirted with Darcy before he revealed to her their common lineage and his reason for paying her visit. As well as his control of her funds, which she resented most of all.

Philippa was a menace.

Darcy spotted her at the opposite side of the room, speaking with a gentleman in soldier's red. Or at least, he hoped the bejeweled gypsy was Philippa. He started down the stairs.

When he was halfway across the room, they called the first dance. A young gentleman led Philippa onto the floor. Darcy stood aside, watching. He would confront her after the dance.

"Darcy? Is that you, old man?" Mr. Michael Edwards, a school chum grinned as he caught Darcy's gaze. "I cannot believe I have found you here."

He was a jester, his face painted in lieu of a mask. On his arm was an Aphrodite, her face masked except for holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth. She wore her fair hair in elaborately stacked curls with pearls woven through. Darcy suspected it was a wig. The woman's light blue dress hugged her figure, neckline plunging, the fabric just covering her ample bosom.

Darcy's manhood stirred as he noted her figure. He bowed to her. "My pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Mr. Edwards' grin widened as he looked from his partner to Darcy. "This lady love will not speak. She is fair company even so."

The woman curtsied, and something in the gesture struck Darcy again as familiar.

Darcy asked, "Have we met?"

The woman cocked her head, waving a gloved hand as though she were flicking his words away.

Darcy's gaze flitted to the dance floor where Philippa brushed her hand across her partner's shoulder before stepping away.

Edwards said, "I had thought you happily married, Darcy."

"I am," Darcy muttered.

"Your wife would not be pleased to see your gaze stray from her."

"My eyes stray nowhere," Darcy said.

Edwards chuckled. "It is not my place to judge, Darcy. Why not take our Aphrodite to the floor?"

"No," Darcy said. Bad enough this woman tempted him, worse if he was to act upon it.

"It is just a dance," Edwards said. "This lady very much wishes to capture attention, and I believe it will be the better for it."

"I am happily married," Darcy restated, as much for his own benefit as Edwards'. "If she is to dance, she can dance with you."

"She has, and I would not compromise her virtue by asking her a second time."

Darcy doubted this woman's virtue had further room for compromise, but Edwards added, "This lady is important to me. I wish to see her safe. She wishes to dance, and there are a few here I would not trust … You understand?"

"What is her relation to you?" Darcy asked. If she was a niece or sister, it surprised Darcy Edwards would allow her to display herself in such a matter. Though ladies and gentlemen often let go of their inhibitions at masked events.

"Please, Darcy, you are the only man here I trust to dance with my lady friend."

Mr. Edwards' eyes twinkled and he grinned. "I am certain you will have a most pleasant time, Darcy."

Edwards was a joker. He always had been. He and Elizabeth had gotten on well, on the occasion Edwards and his sister had traveled north and visited Pemberley, along with a group of other local estates and attractions. Darcy had invited his friend to stay a week. Though Edwards only stayed three days, he and Elizabeth had been as thick as thieves, making each other laugh at the smallest things.

What would Elizabeth think now? Edwards throwing another woman at Darcy.

Whoever this was could not be Edwards' sister, unless she had lost three inches in height and added two to her bosom. Not that Darcy had paid much mind to Edwards' sister's décolletage. He had been far too enamored of his own wife, then five months pregnant with their second child.

Edwards handed the woman over before Darcy could mount another objection. The next dance was called, and to Darcy's dismay, it was the waltz. Over the past five years, the dance and become a staple at private balls, and even the straight-laced Almack's showed signs of relenting and allowing ladies and gentlemen to perform the dance upon its hallowed floors.

Darcy said, "I do not know—" but before he could broach further arguments, the lady stepped closer, placing a delicate, gloved hand on his shoulder and extending her other arm so he might take her free hand. Darcy placed his hand as lightly as he could upon the curve of her hip and guided her to the floor.

The lady's scent stirred his manhood, and he cursed the closeness the dance forced upon him.

Where was Philippa? The music began, and they moved seamlessly together, three steps and turn, once and again. He gazed over her shoulder, searching for his cousin's ward.

She leaned closer, her bosom brushing his chest and, angling the parted lips of her mask towards his ear, whispered, "Who is it that tears your attention from me?" They stepped again, and she shifted her hip to brush his arousal.

Darcy said, "I am married."

"You are not looking for your wife."

Her scent filled his nose, and Darcy swallowed. Blast Philippa! And blast this woman who fit so well with him, tempting him to turn away from the woman he loved.

Darcy repeated, "I am married."

"Many married men take mistresses."

Did this woman wish to be his mistress? This was beyond a simple jest. Once this dance was over, he would take Edwards aside and...

And yet, the woman's whisper was not one of an attempted seduction. She sounded angry as her body grew tenser with each step.

Darcy asked, "Who are you?"

The woman said nothing.

They turned again, and her elaborate wig shifted, revealing at the nape a dark brown curl.

Lizzy? Darcy's breath caught. No, it could not be. But Edwards would think it a fine jest for Elizabeth to seduce her husband as a stranger at a masquerade ball. Knowing Edwards, he likely thought Darcy, too, was in on the joke.

Darcy asked, "Are you certain we are not acquainted?"

The lady cocked her head. Again, a prevarication. His Elizabeth was not an accomplished liar. One of her many qualities worthy of approbation.

Step. Step. Turn.

But Darcy's relief that his attraction to this woman was not making him unfaithful was doused by the knowledge Elizabeth _thought_ him unfaithful. Why else this elaborate ruse?

"You do not trust your husband then," Darcy said.

The woman, who Darcy grew more and more certain with each passing moment was his wife, tensed again. "All men crave novelty." She spoke in a more normal cadence, though still muffled by the mask. "What is a wife to believe when her husband leaves three times in as many months with no explanation?"

Darcy pulled her closer as he lowered his lips to her ear and teased the lobe with his tongue. He was furious to know she mistrusted him, and he resolved to make her suffer as he had, lusting after something forbidden in a room full of strangers. Darcy said, "Alas, I would never betray my sweet wife with one such as you." He nibbled at her earlobe, and was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath, muffled again by the mask.

"Fitz—!"

The dance ended. Darcy bowed.

There was Philippa, her dark curls braided with paste jewels, her breasts high and neckline plunging to almost reveal her nipples. Her waist was cinched, and her dress a glittering Gypsy frock, scandalously short at just below her knees. She wore bright red gloves and gartered stockings with red, glittering slippers.

An older man in a priest's frock whispered something in her ear. She smiled. He took her arm. Darcy's temper flared.

"Wait for me," Darcy ordered, putting both of his hands on his wife's shoulders and guiding her away from the dance floor. Once Philippa was safe, Darcy would confront his wife's mistrust and strip it from her, layer by layer, until both were satisfied.

**Thank you for Reading!**

You can read more of this book, at full heat, at my website, . Enjoy!

V


	3. Chapter 3

Some folks asked me how to get to my website to read ahead on free chapters (and get the unredacted material). Go to VioletKingAuthor DOT com and click on Read Free Online. If the chapter requires a free membership, just click on Get Free Membership and get the membership. This chapter is not redacted at all, so enjoy!

**Chapter 3**

Elizabeth would have quite enjoyed the waltz had she not been pretending to be someone else. Fitzwilliam wanted her. Elizabeth knew her husband well enough to know when he wanted her. It filled Elizabeth with both gratification and fury. Her husband wanted her, not as herself, but as a loose facsimile of a goddess of lust.

Elizabeth rubbed her fingers on her husband's shoulder, shifting her weight to brush her hip over his hardness. So be it, if he wished a mistress, he would have one.

Elizabeth was, in this moment, a novelty.

Except Fitzwilliam did not stay focused on her. With each third turn his attention strayed. Elizabeth, facing him, could not see where his gaze went until they turned. And even so, the ballroom had grown crowded, and Elizabeth, not knowing which woman he sought, could not determine the object of Fitzwilliam's affection.

Or perhaps, she had been mistaken. Fitzwilliam wanted her, but made repeated protests that he was married.

And heavens, despite everything, she wanted him.

Elizabeth's wig shifted. She would have reached up to adjust it, but the waltz bound her hands.

Darcy stared at her nape. "Are you certain we are not acquainted?"

Elizabeth's heart clenched. She held her breath, glad the mask hid her expression. She had been grateful to learn Mr. Edwards was in town and attending the ball. She told him of her plan to meet her husband in costume, sharing nothing of her suspicions of her husband's mistress; and, in the spirit of fun, Mr. Edwards had agreed to accompany her and "introduce" her to Mr. Darcy as his companion.

Now, Elizabeth's plan did not seem so well formed. She tilted her head, hoping her hair would fall back into place, or at the least Fitzwilliam would interpret the movement as a response.

They danced. He pulled her closer. "You do not trust your husband then," Darcy said, the muscles in his jaw clenching.

Fitzwilliam knew. And he was angry. Understandably angry, if there was no mistress. Elizabeth wanted to pull away, but if she ran mid-dance, it would only make things worse. His hand cupped her waist, and he pulled her closer.

Elizabeth said, "All men crave novelty." Mrs. Dorset's words echoed back at her, and Elizabeth questioned herself. The letter was from a lady, but what if it was not a mistress? Then it was Elizabeth who had betrayed her husband. She asked, "What is a wife to believe when her husband leaves three times in as many months with no explanation?"

He pulled her closer, lowering his lips to her ear, teasing the lobe with his tongue. Yes. He knew. Elizabeth could not breathe. His teasing was gentle, but his hands on her were firm. She shifted, trying to put some space between them, but he held her fast.

Elizabeth wanted to melt into him. She wished to take him to another room and have him take her, as though this ruse was a sensual game. His breath whispered over her ear. "Alas, I would never betray my sweet, innocent wife with one such as you." His voice was harsh, possessive and angry. Why had she not done this before, seduced him as another woman?

"Fitz—!" Heat built in her core. Let him think this was a game.

The dance ended. Fitzwilliam let her go. Taking a step back, he bowed.

What was he looking at? Her husband put his hands on her shoulders, guiding her from the floor. "Wait for me."

"Fitz—?"

"Stay here." Without waiting for a response, Fitzwilliam let go and strode into the crowd. Elizabeth flushed, the fury churning in her guts. She was not a dog to be ordered about.

Elizabeth's fears of a mistress had eased, but what had made her husband leave so abruptly? Fitzwilliam was still hiding something.

She noted her husband's direction and followed.

What if "Philippa" was not a stranger, but a sign Lydia and Mr. Wickham had brought trouble to their door again? Fitzwilliam would not "burden" Elizabeth with such a thing, though Elizabeth felt she should not leave it to her husband alone to carry the burden of Elizabeth's poor relations. She knew Fitzwilliam gave Lydia and Wickham occasional loans, which all knew would never be paid back. But the letter Elizabeth held had not been in Lydia's looped script. Nor had she rambled off on tangents, which was her habit in correspondence.

No, "Philippa" was not Lydia.

The press of other partygoers made movement through the crowd difficult. Elizabeth's suggestive costume and lack of female companion drew stares, and she had to sidestep one young man's attempt to intercept her and ask for a dance. As Elizabeth wound through the other revelers, she lost sight of Fitzwilliam.

Elizabeth hugged her arms over her chest, wishing she had a fan. The wig was hot and the mask sticky in her hand. Perfume and sweat mingled in the thick air.

Where was her husband?

The ballroom had four entrances, each raised at the top of five stairs. Elizabeth moved towards the closest. The landing was clear. There she could catch her breath and, if the heavens allowed, find her husband in the crowd below. She might also see for whom Fitzwilliam had abandoned her, and confront him about it after.

She pushed through the crowd and climbed the stairs. Taking a breath of the cooler air, she looked out over the floor.

There were too many people. A young, raven-haired woman, her arm linked with a man in a priest's costume, climbed the stairs.

The young woman said, "Let us stay here." Her frock was brightly colored and low cut, almost revealing the crest of her nipple.

The man said, "It is still warm here. If we visit the gardens, we will be more comfortable." As he passed, Elizabeth whiffed the distinct scent of spirits. Whiskey.

The woman pulled at a glittering braid. Elizabeth recognized by the gesture that this woman was younger than her curves and costume suggested.

Where was her chaperone?

It was not Elizabeth's affair, but glancing at the couple, the hairs on Elizabeth's arms rose. This gentleman was tall and well formed in his priestly vestments, but his hair was touched with silver, and if the lady was as young as Elizabeth suspected, that meant he was at best twice her years. The way his hand rested on her forearm, his index finger stroking the patch of bare skin between her glove and sleeve, was not the gesture of a brother or friend.

The young woman began, "I am not—"

The man leaned towards her and smiled, "Come along. I have a treat for you." He pulled her forward, and after a moment's hesitation, she followed.

Elizabeth did not like this. "Pardon me?" Elizabeth called out, but neither paid her any mind. Perhaps they did not hear.

The man leaned towards the girl, slipping something into her hand. She giggled.

Elizabeth glanced back over the ballroom for her husband, but the young lady weighed on her mind. Perhaps he was a family friend, but the gentleman had taken liberties.

Perhaps Mr. Darcy had stepped outside for some air. It would only take a few minutes to check, and Elizabeth could check on the young lady with the glittering braids as well.

Elizabeth stepped into the hall. It was lit at three feet intervals by flickering candles. Ahead, the double doors to the gardens were open, and beyond them, someone laughed. The doors were a fair distance away, at the end. They were not so close Elizabeth should have lost sight of the young woman and her priest companion. Elizabeth walked down the hallway. Every six feet or so along the walls was an alcove, either with a set of doors or covered with curtains.

As Elizabeth walked, a sense of fear came over her again. She passed a curtained alcove and heard a muffled whimper.

"Quiet!"

Elizabeth dashed to the curtain and pulled it open.

The man in priest's clothes jerked back, his hand still on the young lady's hip. Her lips were reddened, and she shook.

"What is this?" Elizabeth demanded, though she understood well enough. "She is a child!"

"Hardly a child. No child would be here, and no young lady of proper breeding would be without a chaperone." In close quarters, the distinct odor of spirits cloyed. This lecher was well in his cups and taking advantage. Elizabeth would not have that.

"She is under my care. Step away," Elizabeth said.

"You misunderstand. We were playing a game, right, Miss Wilde?" The left side of his lips turned up in a sneer. The mask hid his eyes, but Elizabeth did not need to see his eyes to know he lied. Elizabeth walked to the young lady and held out her hand. "Come with me."

The young woman looked from Elizabeth to the lecher, who now blocked their exit. Elizabeth's heart pounded. He would not attempt to overcome the both of them so close to the main ballroom. Elizabeth would scream and help would come. He must know that.

Except he was inebriated. A sober man would have recognized the precariousness of his position. In the close confines of the alcove, the stench of spirits on his breath was overpowering. He could do Elizabeth and this young woman harm before another intervened to help them.

The horrid man's gaze rested on Elizabeth's throat and downwards, sweeping over her bosom. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. "We were having some fun," the man said.

Gripping the girl's hand, Elizabeth backed away, her back flush to the curved alcove wall. Plasterwork leaves dug into her skin. "Leave!" Elizabeth shouted. Her voice cracked.

He took a flask from his coat and drank down a long pull. "No," he said, breathing out a long sigh. "I dislike how you stare at me. It was only a kiss, and she enjoyed it."

Elizabeth screamed.

**Thank you for Reading!**

Again, if you want to read free chapters of all of my work unredacted and ahead of here, check out my website VioletKingAuthor DOT com.

Best,

V


	4. Chapter 4

Here's the next chapter! Some folks asked me how to get to my website to read ahead on free chapters (and get the unredacted material). Go to VioletKingAuthor DOT com and click on Read Free Online. If the chapter requires a free membership, just click on Get Free Membership and get the membership.

**Chapter 4**

Darcy pushed through the crowd, but more had joined the ball, and he lost sight of Philippa and her partner. When Darcy reached the area of the room where they had been, the couple was gone.

A pair of young ladies walked into Darcy. One was dressed as a milkmaid and the other, Darcy presumed, as an ostrich, judging by the feathers on her mask and headdress and the rich navy of her gown. The milkmaid giggled.

Darcy, ever polite, gave his apologies though the pair had jostled into him.

"It is we who should apologize," the woman in the ostrich mask said, fluttering her ostrich feather fan over her bosom, which strained in her low-cut gown. "Are you long in town? My sister and I could not help admiring your costume." She looked Darcy over from head to hip, a brazen analysis having little to do with Darcy's clothing, which he knew to be unremarkable.

Darcy said, "I am looking for my wife."

"Oh!" the lady ostrich said.

The milkmaid had the grace to blush. "We wish you the best of luck in finding her. What was her costume?"

"Aphrodite," Darcy said. And what a magnificent goddess she had made. While he had once considered the waltz forward, with the right partner, it was a delight, both on the floor and, later, beneath the duvet.

"Your wife is a fortunate woman," the ostrich said, turning her chin from him.

"If you will excuse me." Darcy stepped back, or attempted to, knocking into a gentleman. Darcy froze. The gentleman loomed over him, clad in white from head to toe, his face and beard lightened, a tall, white hat towering like a snowy peak on his head.

The gentleman smiled and said, "No matter, old man," his pink tongue a startling contrast to his whitened visage.

Behind him, climbing the short flight of stairs to the closest entrance, was Elizabeth.

Why had she not stayed where he had placed her, as he had asked her to do?

Why had she not stayed at Pemberley as he, or any man, would have expected?

Darcy sighed. If he had wished for a predictable wife, he would have married Miss Caroline Bingley. The horror.

Once again, Darcy pushed through the crowd. Her gaze passed over him, and he waved, but she showed no sign of noticing him. Or perhaps she was ignoring him. Did she really believe he had a mistress in London?

Who had filled her head with such nonsense? Her mother? No, if anyone was likely to have, and be excused for keeping, a mistress it was Mr. Bennet, and he showed no signs of straying from his vows. Perhaps Lydia has suggested it? She sent Elizabeth the occasional letter, which Elizabeth read and responded to with a certain distinct exasperation.

Elizabeth was not foolish enough to trust Lydia's judgment. Someone had planted this suspicion in his wife's mind. Elizabeth was not naturally suspicious. She said what she thought and showed what she felt with little artifice. Or so he had believed.

How long had Elizabeth suspected Darcy of wrongdoing?

When Darcy reached the stairs, his wife was gone. The gardens are out that door and down the hallway. Maybe Elizabeth had needed air. She was three months with child, all the more reason for her not to tax herself.

Darcy had wanted to protect Elizabeth, but he should have told her about Philippa. He had assumed her reticence was the fatigue of being with child. All the more reason he didn't wish to trouble her. Instead, she had invented a mistress for him, and followed him to town to reveal her truth.

Whatever her reasoning, they could discuss it later. For now, he did not like her wandering from the ball alone. Bad enough he had lost Philippa. He would not lose his wife.

Darcy stepped into the hall. It was cooler outside the crowded ballroom. The hallway extended on his left to the front entrance to the house and on his right to the gardens. If Elizabeth had wanted air, she would walk towards the gardens.

Darcy walked. He was alone in the hallway, which surprised him considering the crowding in the ballroom. Elizabeth generally walked quickly, unless reading, so it did not surprise Darcy she had already reached the gardens. Darcy picked up his pace.

Behind him, there was a muffled shout.

Darcy froze.

A woman screamed.

Darcy whipped around. Every six feet was a curtained alcove. Darcy ran to the first, throwing the curtain aside. Empty. He pulled the curtain aside on the second.

"Quiet!" It was a man's voice. Darcy ran towards it, six strides, and threw the curtain aside.

A man's large back obscured Darcy's view, but he saw his wife, smelled whiskey, and watched as the man in dark priest's robes stalked towards her.

Darcy grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him back. The man twisted in Darcy's grip. Darcy let go, allowing the man's momentum to unbalance him enough for Darcy to shove him against the wall.

The drunken man drew one hand into a fist and swung. Darcy ducked, as Richard had taught him, and using his forearm, slammed it into the man's neck, holding him against the wall. The man struggled as Darcy pressed his weight against the man's throat. "Be still."

The man—Darcy refused to think of him as a gentleman—struggled, and Darcy leaned harder on the man's throat until his skin flushed and he stilled.

Darcy took a breath and eased the pressure enough to allow the wretch to take a breath. He was old enough to be Darcy's late father, though he appeared in good health—shoulders broad, hands large, straining inside gloves a size too small—and he wore a black a mask over his eyes.

Darcy asked, "What business do you have with my wife?"

"He meant to assault this young lady," Elizabeth cut in.

Darcy glanced towards his wife, and his anger, already white hot, somehow rose. Elizabeth held Philippa's hand. The girl was crying, smearing the paint on her face as she shook.

"No business," the man wheezed. "Which lady is your wife?"

"I do not see how this is your concern." Darcy leaned on the man's throat again, cutting off his air. "You may consider every lady here my wife and keep your attentions from all of them. Have I made myself clear?"

The man tried to speak, but he could not pull in a breath. Finally, he managed a nod. Darcy let him choke a moment longer before stepping back. "Go," he said, pointing towards the curtain.

The man staggered, gasping and clutching his throat.

Darcy said, "Now!"

The man stumbled out, tangling himself in the curtain before he pulled himself free and took off down the hall.

Philippa, still sobbing, ran to Darcy and threw her arms around his waist.

Wide eyed, Elizabeth leaned against the wall and stared.

Darcy said, "Philippa, this is my wife, Elizabeth. Elizabeth, this is my cousin Cyrus's ward, Philippa."

Elizabeth's bosom rose as she breathed in and let air out in a slow exhalation. She said, "Your cousin's ward?"

Darcy said, "Later. I believe we have had our fill of costumed dancing this evening, am I right?"

Both Elizabeth and Philippa nodded.

Philippa sobbed, "I am so sorry. I did not—"

Darcy sighed. He could only master so much anger towards a sobbing child. Elizabeth came up behind Philippa and put an arm around her shoulders. "Come along, Philippa. Come along."

Philippa pulled away from Mr. Darcy and rested her cheek in the crook of Elizabeth's shoulder. Darcy handed the pair a handkerchief from his pocket, which Elizabeth used to dab the girl's cheeks. She put the handkerchief in Philippa's hand, and she clutched it. They left.

In the carriage, Philippa huddled in on herself, wiping tears from her face as her nose ran. She had removed the mask. Elizabeth, too, had removed her mask, though the wig remained.

Darcy asked, "Why, Philippa?"

The girl sobbed again.

Elizabeth said, "Just breathe. He looks fearsome, but it is a mask."

Philippa glanced over at Darcy and leaned closer to Elizabeth, who asked, "Do you miss your mama?"

Philippa sobbed again. "I have been alone. Mama said Papa would come for me when she was gone. He sent funds, but he never came. Mama said he loved her, but she was not his wife."

"Oh, you poor dear," Elizabeth said, squeezing the girl closer.

"I am a bastard. That is what they say at the school Papa sent me to. "The other girls, and the teachers, they—" She closed her eyes. "I cannot go back there. I thought, like my mama, I could find a benefactor, but…"

Elizabeth looked across to Darcy, catching his eye. She said, "No, we cannot send you back to that school."

"I thought if I could make— But— I should not have gone."

Philippa should not have gone, but Darcy could not stand the girl's abject misery, and Elizabeth had taken to her. Elizabeth asked, "How old are you, Philippa?"

"Almost fifteen."

Elizabeth glanced at Darcy again. "So young to be on your own."

Darcy's stomach sank. He knew his wife well enough to know how her mind worked. She would ask to bring the girl to Pemberley with them. Darcy did not wish to have the young lady underfoot.

Darcy said, "We will find you a better school. One with teachers who—"

Elizabeth said, "Or, we can make other arrangements. You will stay with us this evening, at our home."

Philippa gave them a tremulous smile. "Mr. Darcy will have me?"

"We will have you. The daughter of my husband's cousin is family."

**Thank you for Reading!**

Again, if you want to read free chapters of all of my work unredacted and ahead of here, check out my website VioletKingAuthor DOT com.

Best,

V


	5. Chapter 5

Here's the next chapter! Some folks asked me how to get to my website to read ahead on free chapters (and get the unredacted material). Go to VioletKingAuthor DOT com and click on Read Free Online. If the chapter requires a free membership, just click on Get Free Membership and get the membership.

**Chapter 5**

Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy was not pleased. Elizabeth knew her husband well enough to recognize the twitch in his brow when Elizabeth insisted they not send Philippa back to the school which had tormented her.

But bringing the girl to Pemberley, at least for a while, would not tax them. They had enough room! Philippa was misguided, and if she was to learn proper behavior, she would do better in the arms of her family with a governess at Pemberley. They could only claim the girl as a ward, but with proper guidance, she could do well for herself.

And Elizabeth felt for her. To lose a mother so young, and to then be thrust into a school where students and teachers were all hostile to her? It was no wonder she had run away and gotten herself into trouble.

By the time they reached the Darcys' townhouse, Philippa had dozed off. Elizabeth shook her awake and guided her to one of the guest rooms. The girl had no clothes, so Elizabeth also lent her a nightrail and morning dress.

Philippa took both of Elizabeth's hands and squeezed them. "Thank you! I cannot thank you enough."

"Nonsense," Elizabeth said. "We will have a servant get you out of that costume, and—"

"I can manage. So long as you untie the stays. Mrs. Adams knotted them. She was our neighbor, and I gave her my purse money so I could stay the week."

Elizabeth asked, "What had you planned from there?"

Philippa looked down and shook her head.

"No matter. You will stay here, for now, and then…"

"Can I live with you and Mr. Darcy?"

Elizabeth knew better than to make a girl this promise without discussing it with her husband. She said, "Mr. Darcy and I will discuss it. But whatever happens, you will not go back to that place or anywhere else that treats you shabbily. You have my word."

Philippa squeezed Elizabeth's hands again. "Thank you," she said.

"And no running off. Do you understand?"

Philippa nodded.

Elizabeth smiled again. "Good. Turn around." Elizabeth untied the girl's stays and helped her disrobe. She said, "Your clothing is with Mrs. Adams?"

"Yes."

"Be certain to give us her address in the morning so we may send for your things."

Elizabeth opened her arms, and the girl fell into her embrace and squeezed. Elizabeth kissed her brow. "Go to sleep. Things will be easier in the morning."

When Philippa was abed, Elizabeth left, closing the door softly, her slippered footsteps muffled by the hallway carpeting. She called one of the maids. "Miss Philippa will be with us in the morning. Be sure she knows to join us for breakfast at half ten."

The maid, in her nightclothes, curtsied. Elizabeth said, "I'm sorry to disturb your sleep."

Before the woman could work out a polite answer, Elizabeth turned back to her husband's rooms. She hesitated, hand curled to knock as she glanced at her ridiculous costume. The wig, at least, felt straight again.

Elizabeth rapped three times on the door.

"Come in, Lizzy."

Her husband had taken off his boots, though he remained dressed. Even the mask was in place. Elizabeth sat on the bed beside him.

Fitzwilliam said, "You cannot mean to bring Philippa to Pemberley?"

"It is the best solution. The child is lonely, and any school will give her the same troubles. We will treat her as our blood and not a bastard."

Darcy said, "I feared that was what you meant in the carriage. Elizabeth, you are with child. I cannot ask you to take on this extra burden."

Elizabeth smiled. "It is no burden. She will be company for Emma and Aldous. And having a governess we choose and oversee will allow Philippa a much better start than leaving her with strangers in town."

"She is my cousin's daughter."

"And what has he done for her?"

Fitzwilliam sighed. "We can have her visit and see how well she does."

Elizabeth grinned. She took her husband's hands. He had removed the gloves, and they met, skin to skin. "I love you. You must know that."

"I know it," he said. "But how could you doubt my love and believe me unfaithful?" The pain in her husband's voice cut Elizabeth.

Fitzwilliam had not accepted her excuse. In truth, Elizabeth had not expected him to do so. Her husband was an intelligent man. Elizabeth said, "I wished to believe you. And it was wrong of me to suspect. Mrs. Dorset—"

"The one who always visits at teatime? I think she may have tried to steal our cook."

"When you were going to town so often, for no reason I could discern, she said all men have mistresses."

"And you believed her!"

"No! Not at first. But there was this." Elizabeth lifted her skirts, reached into the pocket tied about her waist, and handed him the letter. "I know it was not as it seemed—"

"You were in my study?"

"I did not open any of the letters in your desk," Elizabeth said, though fishing his correspondence from the waste bin was only a step better. "I know it was foolish of me. And wrong. The thought of losing you frightened me so. Please, forgive me." She looked up into her husband's eyes.

What if he did not forgive her? She had rifled through his correspondence, even if she had not opened it. But, too, he had told her nothing of taking on a ward.

Fitzwilliam brushed his fingers over Elizabeth's temple, taking a tuft of the wig hair and pinching it between his fingers." When I saw you, your breasts straining in this garment, the fall of your hair over your shoulder, I wanted you. I have never been tempted to forsake my vows, but your teasing tempted me." He let go of her hair, brushing his thumb along the crest of her ear and down her jaw before gripping the back of her neck. "I do not believe I am ready as yet to forgive you for that."

Elizabeth trembled. The strength of his hand and the left corner of his mouth, lifting as he studied her, awoke a heat. She ran her tongue between her lips. "Fitzwilliam?"

"Mr. Darcy," he said. "I think tonight I should like a mistress and not a wife." With his free hand, he reached beside him and took her mask. "Put it on and lay down."

Elizabeth shivered again, but the curl of desire at her core and heat between her legs made clear how much she wanted this. Him.

Elizabeth rested the mask on her face and climbed up onto the bed, lying back against the pillows.

"I think I shall make you work for your forgiveness."

"Yes," Elizabeth said, her breath hitching as he ran his fingers along her calf, lifting her skirts. The heat of his fingertips teased her skin.

"Yes, Mr. Darcy," her husband said, and Elizabeth repeated it. "Good. How wanton my mistress. How hungry for me. Shameful." He kissed her again...

"Please," Elizabeth breathed.

"Not yet, Miss Eliza. It is you who must earn my forgiveness."

Miss Eliza. Elizabeth caressed the words in her mind. Yes, for tonight, she would be Miss Eliza and he Mr. Darcy.

How novel...

Beneath the mask, Elizabeth licked her lips. ... "But what of your wife?"

"Do not speak of my wife. I have yet to forgive her. Sit up so I might shed you of this frock."

... [everything from this point is very steamy.]

**Thank you for Reading!**

Again, if you want to read free chapters of all of my work unredacted and ahead of here, check out my website VioletKingAuthor DOT com.

Best,

V


	6. Chapter 6

Here's the next chapter! Note: this one had lots of steamy parts but it makes sense in this form though it is short. You can read the rest on my website. Go to VioletKingAuthor DOT com and click on Read Free Online. If the chapter requires a free membership, just click on Get Free Membership and get the membership.

**Chapter 6**

Darcy was moments from breaking. His need bordered on pain. He had wanted Elizabeth's to suffer and doomed himself to the same fate.

But what a fate!

... [redacted.]

God, he loved this. He loved her. How could she imagine he could want another woman?

Though admittedly, experiencing his wife as his mistress added spice to their union. Best he think of her as Miss Eliza now, though after, when he made love to her again, he would pull the wig away and run his fingers through her magnificent dark curls.

... [this part is steamy.]

After, they lay together, joined as master and mistress, man and wife.

Elizabeth pulled him closer, caressing his cheek with her thumb. "I suppose Mrs. Dorset was correct in one small thing."

"I do not wish to speak of that woman."

Elizabeth laughed. "But did you not crave novelty? At least a little?"

Darcy could not deny this rendezvous had been enjoyable. "A certain kind," he murmured. "Now stop this foolishness and kiss me again."

"Yes, Mr. Darcy," Elizabeth agreed.

**Thank you for Reading!**

Again, if you want to read free chapters of all of my work unredacted and ahead of here, check out my website VioletKingAuthor DOT com.

Best,

V


	7. Epilogue

Last chapter, but I wrote a *sort of* sequel so check it out ~ Darcy's Stolen Rendezvous! Some folks asked me how to get to my website to read ahead on free chapters (and get the unredacted material). Go to VioletKingAuthor DOT com and click on Read Free Online. If the chapter requires a free membership, just click on Get Free Membership and get the membership.

**Epilogue**

It was half one when the maid slipped into Mr. Darcy's room.

Miss Eliza, the naughty maid, wore one of his wife's frocks. She held a candle in her right hand and a feather duster in her left. Her hair, lustrous brown, was pulled back in a severe knot away from her face. Her belly, five months with child, rounded attractively beneath her borrowed frock.

Darcy smiled. He had been awaiting this maid's arrival. "Dusting, so late in the night?" he remarked.

Miss Eliza froze. The candlelight flickered over her face as her lips parted. "Mr. Darcy," she said, and it was almost a moan.

Darcy admired the lush form of her body. The maid's breasts strained against the bodice of her frock, its hemline too short, revealing the curve of her calf and delicate ankles...

"Mr. Darcy, I must beg your forgiveness. I had hoped to finish my duties without disturbing you." She looked him over, his sleeping shirt open, revealing a patch of dark hair.

Darcy sat up on his elbow and shrugged the duvet from his hips. He let Miss Eliza see how she affected him. He said, "I cannot say I approve of your performing your duties at such a late hour, disturbing my rest."

The maid's lips twitched. Her eyes, always dark, seemed darker in the candlelight. A single curl had escaped the knot at her neck. It fell over her temple and brushed her cheek.

Darcy said, "But, if you are diligent, you may earn my forgiveness."

Miss Eliza set the candle on the nightstand, and, feather duster in hand, dropped to her knees at the side of the bed. "Please, Mr. Darcy, my place here means so much to me. How might I earn your forgiveness?" She fluttered the duster over her chest and then pressed a kiss to his ankle.

"Very good," Darcy said. "Put that down, Miss Eliza and come here," he said, beckoning her onto the bed.

... [redacted.]

When they parted to breathe, Darcy said, "Very nice, Ms. Eliza. But I would strip this frock from you," he said, weaving his fingers through her hair and then resting between her shoulder blades just above the back of the dress. "But you will need to return to your rooms this evening, and it would be shameful for you to do so half clothed."

"Very shameful." Ms. Eliza smiled. "I could spend the night."

"The other maids will gossip. I would not ask that of you."

"Not so much if they know you approve, Mr. Darcy."

Darcy said, "Lay down, beside me."

... [redacted.]

Miss Eliza asked, "Am I forgiven?"

Darcy smiled against her cheek. "This time," he whispered against her skin. "This once, if you spend the night, we shall call it acceptable."

"Merely acceptable?"

"Let me get you the rest of the way out of that dress, and we shall see what is acceptable, and what is more."

"I love you, Mr. Darcy,"

"And I you, my most lovely mistress and wife."

**Thank you for Reading!**

Again, if you want to read free chapters of all of my work unredacted and ahead of here, check out my website VioletKingAuthor DOT com.

Best,

V


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